


Spellbound

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Magic, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Simultaneous Orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It’s not Credence’s face Graves wants to see any more than his clothes; he wants more than that, deeper, wants to get down to the glowing core of the other buried so deep even he never even suspected it was there until it burst free right in front of him." Once Graves sees a glimpse of Credence's power, nothing will satisfy but seeing the whole of it at once.





	

Credence will be beautiful with his clothes off.

Graves has long known the other’s clothes do him no favors. They’re thin things, ragged at the seams and ill-fitting in almost every way they can be; combined with the anxious hunch Credence tends to adopt when speaking to anyone and especially to Graves, they might as well be bags for what credit they do to the actual shape of his body. What little of Credence’s skin they leave uncovered is layered over with scars, ribbons of damage that Graves’s casual magic can’t heal beyond knitting broken flesh in on itself, and Graves is sure there’s more to see under the grey-faded black and threadbare white that makes up the other’s usual clothing; but he hasn’t seen that before, it’s as hidden away as all the rest of Credence has been up until this point.

It’s the first thing Graves does, upon bringing Credence through the door of the apartment he rents at a reasonable price and magics into something expansive and sweeping. Credence’s expression goes blank with shock as he takes in the distance to the far wall, and the size of the wardrobe in the corner to hold Graves’s coats and clean-pressed shirts, and the dishes washing themselves as Graves set them to this morning; but Graves barely spares a glance for what mundane magics surround them, barely has a thought to the simple charms in effect to stretch the walls to twice their normal size and to manage the day-to-day tasks he barely even acknowledges as a necessity, anymore.

“There,” he says instead, gesturing the door closed and reaching to set his wand aside at the table alongside it. It’s a dangerous risk to take, to leave himself unarmed; but Graves has good reason to have faith in his own wards, and right now he wants both hands free for Credence before him. Credence startles when Graves touches him, his narrow shoulders going stiff under the weight of the other’s fingers, and Graves has to set both palms close over the seam of the other’s shirt before he can urge him around to turn and face him. “Let me look at you.”

There’s not much to see. Graves knows that, has known it for weeks; Credence has a habit of tilting his head forward to hide in the shadow of his poorly-cut hair, has a way of parting his lips that makes it look like he’s giving voice to an apology not even granted breath enough to be heard. But it’s not Credence’s face Graves wants to see any more than his clothes; he wants more than that, deeper, wants to get down to the glowing core of the other buried so deep he never even suspected it was there until it burst free right in front of him. Graves hums at the thought, his chest going tight on anticipation, and he’s moving without waiting for more, undoing the buttons holding Credence’s thin vest closed around him with efficiency in no way lessened by his lack of magic to achieve the task. Credence catches his breath at the touch of Graves’s fingers, his shoulders tilting in as if to protect himself and to get closer to the other at once; but Graves doesn’t hesitate, and within a very few minutes he’s sliding Credence’s coat and vest back and off his shoulders, urging the light fabric off sharp elbows and bony wrists as fast as his hands can trace Credence’s angles. Credence is shuddering, Graves thinks, he can feel the other vibrating under his touch like a struck bell, as if all the latent magic in his blood is rising in answer to Graves’s touch; it makes him hum satisfaction, spills the heat of pleasure liquid past his lips.

“You’re doing well,” Graves tells Credence, leaning in close to make a support of his shoulder so Credence can press the weight of his forehead to Graves’s coat, so Credence can gasp for air against the thick fabric while Graves lets the other’s clothing drop to the floor and slides his fingers in under the lopsided knot of the tie half-choking the other’s breathing. The cloth gives way to his touch, the knot slipping free as fast as he pulls, and against him Credence whimpers something faint and helplessly pleading against Graves’s coatfront.

“Ssh,” Graves says, and he reaches out to settle a hand against the back of Credence’s head, to curl his fingers into stability against the dark fall of the other’s hair against the curve of his skull. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence whimpers, but there’s no question to the sound; it’s just emotion, panic demanding vent from his lips as he leans hard against the other’s shoulder, and Graves gives him another hum of incoherent reassurance as he slides Credence’s tie loose and lets it spill from his fingers to pool at the floor. The shirt is next, the thin lines of it buttoned high and painfully tight around Credence’s throat; Graves works the buttons open with as much gentleness as he can muster, easing the weight of them free of the fabric with a delicacy he usually never shows even to his own clothes. Getting dressed is a function of magic for him, a pursuit of efficiency more than appreciation; but this is something to be savoured, as much for the tremble of breathing in Credence’s chest under his fingers as for the immediate, tangible pleasure of soft-worn fabric dragging across Graves’s fingertips. He unfastens the row of buttons down to the top of Credence’s pants, urges the hem up and loose of the fabric to manage the last two, and in front of him Credence gasps an inhale, his voice breaking over the sound as his shirt falls open over the sharp edges of his collarbones.

“You’re okay,” Graves soothes him, trailing his hands up to catch at the fabric hanging off Credence’s shoulders and urging it back down the slack weight of the other’s arms. “You’re fine, you’re perfect, Credence.”

“I’m not,” Credence mumbles, even the sound of his voice hesitant and quivering in his throat.

“Are you telling me I’m wrong?” Graves asks. It’s almost a joke, nearly passes as one, but there’s enough weight on it that Credence’s shoulders tilt in on themselves, that Credence’s head ducks down to hide his face behind the shadowy fall of his hair. Graves lets the other’s shirt fall to the floor to join the remaining pieces of his clothing, fabric fluttering like wings as it drifts down, and then he’s trailing his hands back up Credence’s bare arms, watching the other’s skin prickle and the other’s breathing strain under his ribcage with the shuddering weight of reaction.

“Credence,” Graves says, drawing his thumbs along knife-edge collarbones, lifting his palms to press against an angled-down jaw. “Look at me.” Credence shifts his head, maybe offering a headshake; Graves presses his hands the closer, fits his thumbs in against the sharp line of the other’s cheekbones. “Look at me.” It’s no different than his first request -- the only change is the echo of his previous statement on the words -- but Credence obeys, this time, drags his chin up in surrender to the urging of Graves’s palms at his face to blink heavy-lashed attention up at the other man. His mouth is soft, his lips damp and barely parted like he can’t figure out how to keep his mouth closed under the touch of Graves’s hands to his face, and beneath the shadow of his lashes his eyes are endless, dark and liquid enough to drown in. He only manages to meet Graves’s stare for a moment; then his gaze is dropping, sliding down the line of the other’s nose as if it’s being pulled by the force of gravity before it lands at Graves’s mouth, his attention visibly clinging to the shape of the other’s lips as his lashes dip down to shadow his gaze again.

Graves can feel Credence’s attention clinging to his skin like power, like the magic of the other’s very existence is crackling across his body and layering itself to brilliance behind his gaze to illuminate everything to glowing white. “Credence,” he says, and his voice is lower too, it rumbles in the back of his throat and turns over in his chest until it’s a wholly new sound, made deeper and stronger and more resonant by the weight of his palms at Credence’s face. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

He’s expecting the duck of the other’s head, braced for the reflexive attempt Credence makes to hide his expression as embarrassment seizes control of him for the span of a few heartbeats. But Graves has his hands holding Credence steady, and he tightens his fingers when Credence tries to flinch away, and after a moment Credence’s gaze jumps back up to meet his, his eyes wide and uncertain now but still dark, so dark, dark like night without any stars, like water too deep to be measured. He stares at Graves for a moment, hesitance and fear and desire flickering across his face like clouds scudding across a stormy sky; and then his gaze drops again, his eyes land at Graves’s mouth once more, and the slack weight of want that catches his expression is clear answer even before his lips part on the anxious exhale of desire.

“Yes,” Graves says, to himself, for Credence, giving voice to the unstated shadows between them; and he pulls, urging the other closer to him by his hold, and he lifts Credence’s head up, and he’s ducking in without hesitation to press his mouth against the trembling soft of the other’s. Credence makes a faint noise, something startled and desperate far in the back of his throat, and Graves opens his mouth to press his tongue to the damp shudder of Credence’s lips, to urge the other to surrender to the heat of his touch. Credence doesn’t respond for a moment -- Graves isn’t sure he notices at all -- but then Graves braces his hand at the other’s jaw, and tugs in encouragement to the motion, and Credence hisses a breath through his nose and parts his lips to grant Graves access to the heat of his mouth. His mouth is hot, hotter than it should be, like he’s hoarding all the flame in his body behind the slack weight of his lips, and Graves kisses him like he’s tasting Firewhiskey, as if Credence’s body is made of dangerous strength only to be sipped by the most reckless of drinkers. He touches against the soft of Credence’s lower lip, against the tremor that always sits just in the bow of the other’s mouth like some uninvited guest that refuses to leave; and then farther, as the intoxication unfurls into his blood, pressing in against the resistance at the roof of the other’s mouth and down against the warm wet of his tongue. Credence chokes off a sound, something that could be protest in another setting; but he’s lifted his hands at last, has reached out to clutch desperately at the front of Graves’s coat, and Graves has no intention of letting that dangerous heat go now that he has it in his hands. He lets Credence’s face go, reaches down for the thin white of his undershirt instead; it’s easy to draw the fabric up in his hands, easy to tug it up and off a narrow waist and a shuddering ribcage. His knuckles drag over bare skin, trailing out a path along Credence’s body as he pulls the shirt up, and against his mouth Credence’s head angles back, his frantic breathing spilling into a moan too strong for Graves to keep his hold on him. Graves doesn’t try to urge him back; he pulls instead, drawing the other’s shirt up and over his head, and when Credence tips back in to weight his head at Graves’s shoulder Graves catches an arm around his bare shoulders, tugging at the tangled undershirt to slide it down to Credence’s desperate hold at his coatfront so he can reach for the other’s wrist and pull to ease his hold free.

“You’re okay,” Graves says, sliding the undershirt free of Credence’s wrist and reaching for the other. “Credence, you’re alright.” The shirt comes free, drops to be forgotten with everything else, and Graves sets his hands at Credence’s shoulders, fitting his thumbs in against those collarbones and pressing his fingers to the tremor of those shaking shoulders. “Step back, let me look at you.”

It takes force to urge Credence back. His hold lingers at Graves’s coat, pulling in a half-formed attempt to keep himself where he is; but Graves keeps pushing him, urging his feet back to let the illumination of the light overhead catch against the pale of his skin until Credence’s hands fall free and he lets them drop in front of him again. His head is ducked down, his hands catching and fingers tangling around themselves in front of him like he’s trying to make a cage for his body; but with the light glowing off his bare skin it’s insufficient to hide the lines of his existence from view. He’s thin, the way Graves already knew him to be thin, lanky with his full height but underfed in a way that brings his ribs to clear visibility under his skin and strips his arms of any but the thinnest lines of muscle and tendon. His skin is pale too, white like it’s never seen the light of day, and if Graves had seen the marks of healed-over injuries across Credence’s palms he has never before seen the scars that cling to his shoulders, that wind around his waist and he’s sure span the ridged line of the other’s hunched back. But Credence is beautiful in spite of all that, _because_ of all that, because when Graves looks at skin stretched taut over a thin frame he can see the glow of magic hovering flame-close to the surface, can almost see the radiance of Credence’s power shining from the center space of his ribcage alongside his heartbeat. Credence is gasping, is trembling with adrenaline too much for his limited composure to handle; but he’s glowing too, brighter than Graves has ever seen him before, and Graves can feel his own breathing catch, can feel his whole body go hot with the desire to have that brilliant light within the span of his hands.

“Credence,” he says, and his voice is going soft in his throat, is purring over itself into gentle affection he makes no attempt to restrain. He lets his hands slide down, lets his touch trail over Credence’s chest and down to the shift of his too-fast breathing against his ribcage; Credence shudders with the contact, his hands drawing up and his head tilting back in involuntary reaction to the touch, but Graves is looking at that glow inside him instead of at his face, is watching the heat of it burn hotter between the span of his palms like it’s answering his call.

“God, Credence,” Graves breathes, his voice catching over emotion he doesn’t have to feign. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence chokes out, the name stalling over the emotion Graves can see working hard against the straining line of the other’s throat. He has his eyes shut, his lashes falling like spreading wings across the high edge of his cheekbones, and Graves wants to catch his face in his hands, wants to replace the frailty of Credence’s ribs with the strength of his fingers and feel the purr of that glowing possibility in the other’s veins spill over his hands and seep into his very being.

“Come with me,” Graves says, and he’s pushing without waiting for agreement, bracing his thumbs against Credence’s skin and urging the other into stumbling movement backwards. Credence’s head comes forward again, his lashes shifting as he reaches to clutch for desperate balance at Graves’s coat, but Graves doesn’t pause; he keep pushing, urging Credence back even as the other struggles himself back into balance over his feet, crossing them both over the span of his apartment with unhesitating certainty. Credence is gasping, breathless as if they’re running instead of pacing out a measured stride across a very short distance, but Graves doesn’t pause for that either; that light under his hands is flickering, is glowing like a candleflame catching brighter against the cold of the night, and he wants to stoke it higher, wants to see Credence alight with all that potential strength.

“Behind you,” Graves says, his warning coming barely in time to serve its duty, and Credence turns his head in syrup-slow reaction to the suggestion. He barely has time to see the bed behind him before Graves is pushing him back against it, tightening his hold on Credence’s waist to steady the other against the sudden force at the back of his knees. Credence gasps startled reaction to the impact, his head coming back around and eyes going wide with alarm, but Graves steadies his fall, bracing the minimal weight of the other’s body as he lowers him back down to the smooth spread of the bedsheets underneath him. Credence’s fingers tighten, his breath catches to the very edge of desperate panic in his chest; Graves keeps holding onto him longer than he needs to, keeps leaning in over the other while he waits for Credence’s breathing to slow, waits for the other to collect himself back to something akin to composure again.

“It’s okay,” he says again, purring the words without thinking about the meaning behind them, the same way he would offer incoherent comfort to a skittish animal leery of human touch. He lifts a hand from Credence’s waist to touch his fingers to the other’s forehead instead, to stroke back the heavy dark of the other’s hair from his skin. Credence hisses at the contact, almost flinching as if he’s expecting a blow, but as Graves fits his palm in against the side of the other’s head Credence’s tension disintegrates into shaky surrender instead, his lashes dipping as his mouth comes open and his head tips in to press closer against Graves’s touch as if in pleading for more. Graves hums in the back of his throat, something soft and soothing like a lullaby as his palm draws down over Credence’s hair, soothing the other to lie back to comfort over the blankets behind him while Graves draws down against the curve of his throat, along the straining tension in the other’s neck and to the clean line of collarbone so close under pale skin.

“You’re fine,” Graves says, watching his fingers slide down Credence’s chest, watching the flicker of that magical light surge to meet his touch as surely as the pink flush of warmth colors the other’s skin under his fingertips. He trails down across the separate edges of Credence’s ribs, watching as the other shudders and jerks with ticklish sensation, as the light in him bursts and sparks like miscast spells under Graves’s fingertips, and he keeps going, this time, over the dip of the other’s waist and down to the line of his hipbones against the top edge of his pants, along the soft give of his stomach where every shudder of reaction he offers is telegraphed in perfect clarity.

“Credence,” Graves says, and he looks back up, casting his gaze through the fall of a lock of hair that has worked itself loose of the rest to hang heavy against his forehead. Credence is watching him from under his lashes, his mouth soft and trembling and one hand drawn up so he can worry his thumbnail with the edge of his teeth. He looks tense, strained, like some impossible force drawn back in an unseen bow waiting for the slip of the archer’s hand to be released. Graves’s fingertips tingle with the drag on an invisible bowstring. He trails his fingers against the top edge of Credence’s pants. “I’m going to take the rest of your clothes off.” Credence makes a sound far back in his throat, a helpless whimper of panic and desire both as his chest tenses, as his stomach flutters; but he’s hard against the thin fabric of his pants, Graves can see the strain of the other’s cock begging for contact with the same instinctive craving that Credence himself is so strung together with, and he knows what Credence is going to answer even before he gives voice to the request. “May I, Credence?”

Credence’s eyes shut, his head angles back. Graves can see tension working against his throat, can see a host of unvoiced refusals work and stall to silence against the flex of Credence’s neck; and then, very faint, straining against the part of the other’s lips: “Yes,” the murmur of sound accompanied by a flare of light as brief as it is brilliant. Graves’s breath catches, his own body surging into a fresh rush of desire; but the light is gone as briefly as it was there, having burnt itself out against self-consciousness for the present.

It doesn’t matter. It’s consent all the same, clear for all that it was nearly too soft to hear, and Graves moves accordingly, drawing himself back and away from Credence’s reach as he slides to the end of the bed, where he can kneel at the soft of the mattress while he reaches for one of Credence’s too-thin legs. He unlaces the weight of the other’s boot with care, so slowly that he doesn’t even threaten the threadbare fragility of the laces holding the burden of the sole to Credence’s foot, and when he eases it off it’s gently too, carefully to avoid bruising or even flexing against the angle of Credence’s ankle or the delicate curl of his toes. The second boot goes the way of the first, both of them dropped to the side with far less care for their well-being than Graves feels for Credence’s, and then it’s on to the socks, rolling the much-mended thin of them down and free of Credence’s shaking feet. There’s something intimate, Graves feels, about sliding his fingers up under the hem of Credence’s pant legs to catch at the top edge of the other’s socks, about trailing his touch along that span of skin so well-hidden by layers of fabric and shoes; he wonders if anyone else has ever touched Credence here, or if this is as novel to him as all the rest of their interaction has been so far. He sets Credence free of his socks as well as his boots, drawing the other’s legs up to lie flat across the bed; Credence is trembling uncontrollably, now, he’s all but hiccuping through the attempts at breathing that are flexing so hard in his chest. Graves pulls the other’s legs out straight, so they take up all the space Credence usually tries so hard to disappear from, and then he’s sliding in closer, fitting his knees around the other’s so he can rock up over the length of Credence’s body as he reaches for the buckle of the other’s belt, for the length of leather and metal holding the too-short length of Credence’s pants in place.

“You’re so beautiful,” Graves says again as he unfastens the other’s belt, as he tugs at the dark fabric to gain slack enough to begin on the buttons holding Credence’s pants on. “You’re more beautiful the more I see of you, Credence.” The pants come open, the fabric goes loose; Graves takes a breath, and reaches up, and when he sets his hands down again it’s at the edge of Credence’s ribcage, just at the boundary of that light flickering in the other’s chest. “I want to see all of you.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says, his voice shaking as badly as the rest of him, his fingertips caught at the edge of his mouth like he’s forgotten they’re there. His eyes are shut, his head turned away like he can’t stand to see the way Graves is looking at him; but his hips rock up, just fractionally, just by an inch, and that’s enough of an invitation for Graves to take.

“Yes,” Graves says, “I’m here” and he draws his hands down, pressing against Credence’s skin to slide his fingers inside the loose edges of the other’s clothes, to fit the span of his hands between fabric and bare skin as he draws down, letting his wrists catch at Credence’s clothing to push it down and off the other’s hips. Credence’s legs flex as his cock comes free of the fabric, as he tries to reflexively draw his knees up and in to protect himself; but Graves stays where he is, holding the other’s legs down under his weight as he strips Credence for the light, and if Credence whimpers Graves sighs, satisfaction hot and heavy at the back of his tongue.

“Credence,” he says again, and he lets one of his hands go so he can reach up instead, so he can skim his fingers down from the dip of the other’s navel to the tangle of dark hair curling around the base of Credence’s swollen length. He drags his touch through the hair, unwinding the curls from each other while Credence gasps for air on the bed; and then he draws his fingers up, and reaches out, and closes his grip around the heat of Credence’s cock.

Graves has never heard anyone make the sound Credence makes when Graves touches him. It’s a strange medley of reactions, part a sob and part a wail and both laid close over a moan that goes all the way down to the other’s stomach, where Graves can see the flex of it under the soft give of skin. Against his palm Credence’s cock jerks, twitching as if in echo of the same desperate shudder that runs through the other’s body; but Graves doesn’t let go of him, doesn’t ease his hold or draw his touch away. He’s too busy moving, tightening his fingers to see how they fit against the curve of Credence’s length and sliding up over an experimental inch of motion, and in front of him Credence’s whole body is shaking, quivering through helpless reaction as if Graves is pulling magic directly out of him. His legs are flexing, his hands are curling; and inside his chest Graves can see that light flickering, waxing and waning like moonlight stammering its way around the barrier of an eclipse.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence gasps, his voice wobbling in his throat as his body twitches under Graves’s touch, as his skin flushes to feverish pink all across his narrow shoulders and the tops of his thighs. “Please, I don’t--”

“Ssh,” Graves hums, and he slows the friction of his hand, lets his strokes go still until Credence is quaking more with the possibility of sensation than the actual fact of it. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“I just,” Credence starts, and his voice is shaking and his hands are trembling but he’s fighting for air, he’s forcing himself into words that tumble over themselves before stalling to stillness once more. “I can’t--if you keep going I’m going to…”

“I know,” Graves soothes. “It’s okay, I won’t.” The temptation is strong -- there would be a great pleasure, Graves thinks, to watching that light spark itself to brilliance in Credence’s eyes while he stroked the other over the edge into a shuddering orgasm -- but Credence sounds panicked, nearly on the verge of tears, and Graves doesn’t want this to be an unpleasant experience for the other for more reasons than one. He draws his hand away instead, reaching out to rest it gently against the top of Credence’s thigh instead, and when he speaks it’s in a low tone, the most calm, steady one he can muster. “You know what comes next?”

Credence ducks his head. It’s hard to make out the gesture from the full-body tremors still quaking through him; but Graves’s question was nearly rhetorical anyway. After all, he’s told Credence this himself, and Credence never forgets what Graves tells him.

“I’m going to be gentle,” he says, reaching out with his free hand to gesture his wand wordlessly to him. He’s watching Credence’s face instead of what he’s doing, but the other isn’t looking at him; his eyes are still shut, his expression flickering through tremors of emotion in waves before he can collect it back to fragile composure. “I won’t hurt you.” He lifts his hand, turning his palm up to make a cup of his fingers as he gestures the end of his wand over them; Credence makes a faint sound in the back of his throat, like the very beginning of panic as he lifts his lashes to look, and Graves sets his wand aside and reaches out again to replace a steadying hand against Credence’s other leg, lower this time, by the angle of the other’s knee instead of higher on his thigh. “I only want you to feel good, Credence.”

“I know,” Credence says, and he’s looking at Graves, now, in that strange, side-eye fashion he so often does, as if he won’t be noticed if he only casts his gaze sideways through the dark of his lashes instead of directly at the other. “I trust you, Mr. Graves.”

“Good,” Graves says. “That’s very good, Credence.” He pushes at the other’s leg, offering suggestion more than urging, and Credence responds as he always does, with as much alacrity as if Graves had given him an explicit command. His knee tips wide, his legs spread open for Graves’s consideration, and Graves reaches down, letting his gaze drag down the whole open shudder of Credence’s body, from the glimmer of light under his ribs to the swollen flush of his cock to the translucent pale against the inside of his thighs and the shadows that call Graves’s touch like a magnet calls to iron. Graves takes a breath, feeling the anticipation of his inhale fill and press against the inside of his ribs; and then he reaches out, and touches his fingers to Credence’s skin, and watches the other shudder himself into incoherence at his touch.

Graves isn’t used to doing this by hand. It’s easier with a spell, or even just with his wand, if he wants to take the time to open his partner up with more than the cursory effort the wandwork provides. But he wants to go slow, this time, wants to fit himself inside the frame of Credence’s body to feel that glow from the inside out, and it’s worth it at once, before he’s even worked his fingers past the tension of the other’s entrance. Credence’s spine arches when Graves’s fingers drag over him, his body curving up and off the sheets as if he’s trying to levitate himself through sheer force of will; beneath Graves’s grip his leg flexes, his knee angling in as if to seek out some reassurance of the other’s touch against him. Graves tightens his hold on Credence’s leg, sliding his hand in closer to press his palm flush to the other’s skin, and “Ssh,” he says, feeling his voice thrum over shadows in his chest as he watches Credence strain for him, as he hears Credence’s inhale break over a helpless gasp of heat. “Credence, relax.”

“Yes,” Credence says, panting over agreement entirely at odds with the desperate strain of his body. “Mr. Graves, I’m trying.”

“I know,” Graves says. “You’re doing well” and he pushes, shifting his touch to bear down against the tension of Credence’s entrance while the other’s expression is still falling into that wide-eyed shock that always comes with any kind of praise Graves gives him. There’s a moment of resistance, a brief flicker of reflexive strain; but Graves keeps pushing, and Credence whimpers, and Graves’s touch slides forward and into the other as he watches Credence’s eyes roll up with the first involuntary jolt of reaction. Credence is hot to the touch, as if his blood is steam, as if his skin is fire; as Graves pushes deeper into him he can feel Credence tense around him, can feel the reflexive movement of the other’s body seizing hard around the pressure of Graves’s touch as it slides farther into him. Over the bed Credence is glowing, Graves can see all his skin radiating light like the dawn is breaking into his veins, and Graves feels new-made, virginal, like he’s never touched someone before, as he’s never touched Credence before.

“Credence,” he says again, his voice thrumming hot in the back of his throat, and he draws his hand back, works himself through another slow thrust to feel out the tremor of the other’s body, to feel the way Credence shudders and tenses and surrenders to him. “Oh, Credence, you’re doing so well.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence gasps, struggling over the words as his head tips back, as his fingers drag desperation over the sheets under him. “I...that feels…”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Graves says, an order more than a question, and he draws through another thrust, feeling Credence ease and soften to the force of his finger. “It doesn’t hurt, Credence, does it?”

Credence gasps an inhale, jerks his head through a desperate negation. “N-no, Mr. Graves.”

“No,” Graves repeats, and he thrusts again, feels Credence melting for him, sees Credence glowing for him. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Ah,” Credence says, his voice creaking in his throat like it’s thinking of breaking entirely; and then, as Graves thrusts in hard with his finger: “ _Ah_ ,” a moan, now, dragging free of his straining throat as his head angles back hard against the pillow under him. “ _Yes_.”

“Like that,” Graves says instead of asking. “Yes” and he draws his touch back, urging another slick finger against the tight grip of Credence’s body around the first. Credence whimpers far in the back of his throat, the glow in his chest sparks blindingly bright for a moment; and then Graves is sinking into him, and whatever gasp of reaction Credence gives is more than overrun by the groan of satisfaction that breaks from Graves’s throat.

“Oh, Credence,” he says, and he can feel his composure giving way and he doesn’t care, not when he can see Credence’s energy flaring to life inside him with every forward motion of Graves’s touch into him. “You really are beautiful.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says again, his coherence audibly collapsing onto itself as he shudders over the sheets of the bed under him. His leg is still shaking against Graves’s touch; Graves isn’t sure if Credence even realizes he’s trembling, is certain it makes no difference even if he does. He keeps moving, watching Credence’s chest instead of the uncontrolled tremor at his mouth, watching the glow of power in the other’s body pulse into a rhythm like a second heartbeat answering to Graves’s call rather than Credence’s own.

“You’re so great,” Graves tells Credence, feeling the words fit into the shape of sincerity odd and heavy with weight on his tongue. “Credence, you’re going to be so great, you _are_ so great, I’m going to take such good care of you.” His fingers are sliding easy, now, working into a steady rhythm that fits itself against the strain of Credence’s body over the sheets under him; Graves is hardly even thinking of the motion anymore, it’s coming with such instinctive ease to his fingers. “You’re so wonderful.”

Credence chokes over an inhale, forcing himself through a breath that sticks audibly in his chest like it’s tangling around that radiant light. “Mr. Graves.”

“Yes,” Graves says, like there’s any meaning to this, like Credence has offered all the words he doesn’t need to hear to understand what the other is saying. “I will.” He doesn’t even hear the absence of clarity in his words; he’s too busy drawing his touch back, easing his fingers free of the other’s body with as much care as he used on that first careful thrust in. Credence still shudders to the drag, his body tensing around Graves’s touch and his leg flexing as if to push back against the other’s bracing hold against him, but Graves doesn’t pause, just draws his fingers free and leaves Credence to tremble himself back into a full inhale over the bed while he brings his hands to bear on the process of getting his own clothes free. There must be some flicker of magic clinging to his fingertips, some shiver of power bleeding itself free of the adrenaline thrumming so hot in his chest; Graves would swear that his buttons come open of their own accord under his fingers, that his clothing falls loose as quickly as he thinks to reach for it. He sheds the weight of his coat, the heavy burden of his boots, the soft fall of his shirt in quick succession, letting them drop from his fingers but not surprised when they flutter up and away to hang themselves to tidiness instead of crumpling to the floor. He can taste magic crackling in the air, now, can see it sparking at the tips of his fingers as clearly as it is purring inside Credence’s chest; there’s no need for the light overhead, not with the illumination of strength spilling from both their bodies to cast the room into brilliant radiance. Graves touches a hand to his belt, lets the leather slide free of the weight of the buckle unassisted by the movement of his fingers, and he’s leaning in over Credence again, lifting a hand to touch the sharp angle of bone against the other’s jaw to draw that shadow-dark attention back to his own face. Credence is staring at the bright air around them, his lips parted and breathing rushing fast on what Graves thinks is as much awe as arousal; but his lashes flutter to submission as soon as Graves’s fingertips touch him, his chest works on a hiss of air as his attention catches back against the lines of Graves’s face.

“Credence,” Graves says as his pants slide free of his legs, the weight of them drawing free to offer his skin to the direct contact of that coruscating light in the air around them, to the electricity crackling over the sheets of the bed like it’s trying to find a grounding-out point. Credence huffs an exhale, chokes on his attempt at a second, and Graves slides his hand in closer, fitting his fingers against the fragile line of the other’s spine to hold Credence’s gaze steady on him as he reaches out with his free hand to touch at the inside of the other’s leg, to urge his position more open over the sheets. “Relax.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence gasps, and he’s reaching up, his hands are making a bid for contact as if he means to clutch at the other’s coat, to make fists of the fabric that has already carried itself away and out of reach. His palms press to bare skin instead, his hands fitting against the heat of Graves’s chest, and Graves can feel Credence’s touch like it’s a live wire, like it’s jolting tension through him even as the other’s fingers wind up to grab desperately against the back of his neck in an attempt to offer stability to the other. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Graves says, offering as much calm as he can on his voice when his heart is hammering in his chest, when he can see dangerous light threatening behind the dark of Credence’s eyes and inside the soft wet of his mouth. Credence is glowing, he’s radiant, he’s throwing off light and power clearly visible to anyone who saw him, now, and if that power decides Graves is a threat...Graves’s heart is pounding, thudding hard over the awareness of danger crackling so hot in the air around him, but his touch is still gentle, his voice is still even. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.” Credence’s leg angles wide, Graves’s touch slides down the inside line of the other’s thigh; Credence gasps an inhale, his eyes flash white for a moment before dimming to some measure of their usual dark. “Trust me, Credence.”

“I do,” Credence says, but the brilliance under his skin is pulsating, is thrumming uncertainty in time with the tremor of his words more than their meaning. “Mr. Graves.”

“Good,” Graves says, and he braces his hand against the inside of Credence’s knee as he lets his touch slide away from the other’s face and down to brace at the mattress under Credence’s head instead. He feels taut, tense, his whole body thrumming in anticipation of what he’s about to do; he’s never wanted anything so much before. “Hold onto me.” And he moves, slow but certain, without any gaps of hesitation to give the uncertain brilliance in Credence’s chest time to claw itself to control over him. His hips rock forward, his body fits to press close against Credence; Credence hisses a breath, his thighs flexing in involuntary reaction as Graves drags against him, but Graves doesn’t give him time enough to panic, doesn’t give him a chance to work himself into fear. He’s moving instead, pressing in against the slick slide of Credence’s skin, and when he rocks forward the hard heat of his cock urges Credence open around it, and they slide together in a single smooth movement. Underneath him Credence’s spine arches, his eyes go wide and brilliant, and Graves is speaking fast, offering reassurance as quickly as he can while his whole body tenses with fear and pleasure in such equal parts he can’t tell one from the other.

“It’s okay,” he says as Credence whimpers an exhale against the air, as Credence’s legs tense hard around the resistance of Graves’s hips. His entire body is shaking, is flexing through involuntary resistance to the heat of Graves’s cock sinking into him; Graves can feel each tremor of response clench hard around him, can feel his own body flaring hot with the pleasure of it even as his heart speeds with the start of panic. “Credence, listen to me, I’m here, you’re okay.”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence gasps, and his hands are flexing at Graves’s neck, his short-cut nails digging in bruise-hard against the give of the other’s skin. His eyes are open but Graves doesn’t think he’s seeing anything; he’s not sure there’s any attention left in Credence to give to his vision, he can almost see the threads of the other’s self dissolving as his open eyes start to bleed light into the room. “I...Mr. Graves, _please_.”

“I know,” Graves says, and he draws his hand away from the inside of Credence’s leg, reaching out instead to press his fingers to the other’s cheek, to fit the span of his palm close to the line of Credence’s jaw to brace against the open-mouthed tremor running through the other. “Credence, look at me, you’re okay.”

“It feels--” Credence starts, and his forehead creases, his lashes shut; for a moment his mouth goes wider, like he’s straining to fill his lungs with air instead of the light spilling so clearly from him now that Graves can almost feel the burn against his skin. “It _feels_.”

“I know,” Graves says again, and he’s leaning in closer, letting himself drop down against the support of his elbow instead of his hand so he can be nearer, so he can hold Credence steady against the bed under the weight of his body. Credence gasps at the contact, his back straining to arch him up in reflexive response, but Graves is reaching for his face, catching and bracing Credence’s head to stillness between both his hands at once. “I can feel you, I’m here with you.” He takes a breath, feels his whole body trembling like it’s resonating with the few seconds of existence that could be his last, as if his own mortality is running to flame in him, trying to spark his own sedate magic into the all-encompassing bonfire burning so bright in Credence’s veins. “Open your eyes, Credence, look at me.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Credence obeys. Graves can feel every rush of blood through his veins, can feel every fragment of his existence pressing desperately close against his attention; if Credence is past hearing him there will be no saving either of them, if he has lost his sway over the roaring power he holds inside the fragile vessel of his body Graves will have given up his last chance to save himself. But then Credence’s eyelids shift, press tight closed for a last moment of bracing hesitation, and then he’s opening his eyes to spill all the radiance inside him free with a gasp. Whatever shadow was once there is gone, now, it’s been consumed by the fury of that blaze inside him; his eyes are pure white, spilling silvery light to illuminate the whole of Graves’s apartment in a single, blazing rush. It’s not starlight, Graves realizes, it’s not moonlight; Credence is a second sun, ablaze with a power too great to be contained within the fragile frame of the boy he has been up until now. Looking at him is like looking at the dawn, like gazing wide-eyed into a sunrise, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Graves isn’t even afraid.

“Oh, Credence,” he says, and there is no acting on his voice, no need to touch his tone with the lie of caring; the reverence in his throat is perfectly genuine, the breathless appreciation in his chest irrepressible even if he cared to try. “You are _so_ beautiful.”

Credence’s expression shifts. There’s something at the give of his mouth, some softening of the panic so tense against the curve of his lower lip; and in his gaze, perhaps, some barely-perceptible easing of the brilliant threat spilling from his open eyes. The fear dissolves, melting into shock, disbelief, confusion; and below it all the tentative beginnings of trust, the framework of hope thin and fragile as a spiderweb.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says, and it’s his own voice, trembling and soft even with the resonance of that repressed magic echoing off the inside of his chest. “Do you really think so?”

“I really do,” Graves breathes, honesty hot on every word, and then he leans in to press his mouth to the open give of Credence’s lips, to catch the spill of light from Credence’s throat against his tongue and taste the edge of pure magic at his mouth. Credence’s lashes dip, the shadowy weight of them lowering over the incandescent glow of his blown-white eyes, and it’s as his grip eases at Graves’s neck that Graves moves again, rocking his weight back by an inch so he can take another slick thrust forward. Credence jerks at the pressure again, his body quaking like glass on the verge of cracking; but Graves is over him, Graves has the other’s face caught between his palms, and as he moves he keeps that grip, even as he begins to fall into a rhythm for the slow strokes forward into the other’s body. He can feel Credence shudder under him with every movement, as if the other is electrified just by the feeling of Graves moving into him; but when he pulls back from Credence’s mouth to gasp for air he can see the light flickering in answer to him too, can see the shift of illumination coalescing into something solid, firm, brighter even than what it has been already. Credence’s eyes are open again, his lips still soft around the pant of his breathing; he’s forming unvoiced words at his lips, Graves thinks he can see the shape of his name half-formed there between the beginnings of pleas, but he’s moving before Credence gives voice to his request, anticipating the other’s desires from the telltale flicker of that light under his skin rather than waiting for the unsteady uncertainty of words to give them form. Credence arches when Graves thrusts at this angle, his throat tenses at the pressure as Graves fills the slick grip of his body; and inside his chest his magic flares white, blinding, filling out a counterpoint harmony to Graves’s movement. Graves tightens his hold at Credence’s head, pressing hard to brace the other still as he moves faster, harder, driving deep into the clenching heat of the other’s body; and below him, against him, there’s light, there’s power, the whole room is humming with a faint, audible tone, like a bell struck a long way off or the echo of a song half-forgotten from childhood. Credence’s vision is glazed, his mouth is slack; the only tension in him is in his fingers, clutching desperately at the back of Graves’s neck, and the strain of his legs spread open around Graves’s hips, and the deep-down grip of his body fluttering around the other’s length in fast, stuttering movements like a racing heartbeat speeding itself out with every passing breath.

“Credence,” Graves says, speaking even though he knows Credence won’t hear him, even though he’s sure the only thing Credence can do is shudder through the force of the sensations running through him and the grip of the power surging to such intensity through all his veins. “Credence, darling, you’re so beautiful, your power is so beautiful, you are so _perfect_ , _Credence_.”

“Ah,” Credence shapes, the sound unvoiced by the tremor in his throat, “Mr. Graves” and Graves thrusts into him, and his white-blank eyes roll back, his whole expression falling slack and open, and Graves just has time to gasp an inhale before Credence convulses under him and the entire world goes brilliantly, blindingly white. There’s light spilling from Credence’s eyes, mouth, chest, fingertips, every inch of his skin has gone radiant with the power pouring out of him; Graves can’t see, can’t think, isn’t sure he can feel at all. Maybe it’s the power rushing over him that he can feel pulsating through the force of orgasm instead of Credence’s frail body underneath his, maybe it’s the roar of that light given strength he’s hearing instead of the moan of Credence’s voice in his ears. It’s impossible to say, impossible to distinguish, and it doesn’t matter anyway; it’s all the same, Credence and his power and both of them sweeping over Graves, pulling him down and in until his own orgasm spills over him secondhand, like the quivering of Credence’s body under his has dragged harmonizing pleasure from the tension of his own. Graves groans into heat, the sound formed close around Credence’s name as his cock spills into long pulses of pleasure inside the other’s body; but he can’t hear himself, he can hardly feel the sensation as much as he _is_ the sensation, all of it, as he’s being swept away by the all-over radiance that has enveloped him. His voice is silent in his throat, his fingertips are tingling themselves to numbness, and for a brief span of heartbeats, Graves thinks that if he were to die like this, he wouldn’t even mind the loss.

The light eases, eventually. Graves has no idea how much time has passed when his awareness fits itself back into the span of his body: a heartbeat, a minute, an hour spent caught in the overwhelming current of power pouring free of the restraints Credence has so long kept on it. When he blinks his eyes struggle to adjust, his vision blown out of order by that too-much light; it takes a moment even just to start seeing distinctions between shadow and light, and another before he can piece out the difference in the illumination filling the room, the strange, single-source white that saturates everything around him to monochrome.

“I’m sorry.” Credence’s voice is reedy in his throat, thin and roughened over the trace of some shout Graves didn’t hear, some sound lost to the wave of sensation that broke over them both. “Your lights, I.”

Graves lifts his head, still blinking hard to scatter haze from his vision. The light overhead is still intact, the glass still framing the bulb inside; but the filament is broken, or gone, perhaps, as Graves’s vision comes back into clarity enough to let him see the details. The force of Credence’s power blew apart the meager electrical attempt at illumination, removed the familiar golden glow of the light overhead as if in a fit of jealousy to leave only itself to brighten the shape of the room.

“It’s okay,” Graves says, turning away from the light overhead and back to Credence. “I can…” and then he sees Credence, and his words die in his throat.

Credence is glowing. Credence was glowing before; there was light spilling from his lips, from his eyes, tearing itself free of the spaces between his ribs like it was desperate to break free. But that was a raging force, that was power too great to be contained forcing free of the cracks in the vessel trying to capture it; that was something else, something separate, something barely contained in the space of Credence’s body and thrumming with danger Graves could feel sparking at every touch. But this, now: light in every one of Credence’s veins, illuminating the soft give of his lips and the paper-thin of his eyelids and tracing all across the arch of his cheekbones and the curve of his forehead. It’s not leaking from between his ribs anymore; it’s filling them, collecting to a knot of light Graves can see flutter the rhythm of a heartbeat with every breath Credence takes, with every tremor of existence through the body under him. The power is running through Credence, now, filling the space of arteries and trickling out to glow soft at the close-clustered web of veins at his fingertips, like all his blood has become incandescent, as if he has finally found a way to fit the sun of his power inside the space of his body. His lashes are like ink, his hair a spill of shadow; when he blinks his eyes shift like twilight, like the grey of dawn, light and shadow pouring one over the other into a single point of harmony in the eyes gazing up at Graves over him.

“Credence,” Graves breathes, and he feels himself undone, feels himself remade, as if the whole of his life has been a passage of time to bring him to this moment, to see the beauty of the power and of the person caught between the span of his palms. “You are so beautiful.” And he leans in, and he closes his eyes, and he presses his mouth to the soft glow of Credence’s lips.

Credence tastes like magic on his tongue.


End file.
